


playing for keeps

by sosojiwa



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Crack Fic, M/M, based off of a certain cursed video, georgs family owns a bread store, i cant even describe this mess, its bad, melchior got drunk somehow, sorry omg, uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 16:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosojiwa/pseuds/sosojiwa
Summary: in which melchior sets out one saturday to go and grab some bread for his beloved mother. unfortunately for moritz, who happens to be working the cash register that morning, and for georg, who happened to be there, the journey to retrieve the bread went less well than any of them were hoping it to be.





	playing for keeps

**Author's Note:**

> aka -- summer is writing four or so different super somber, heavy and sad (three revolve around moritz' death and one of those three even dabbles in moritz doing really bad non-con stuff w/ ilse as presented in act two of the wedekind play-- wack, i know) and is tired of constantly writing sad shit and decided to do This
> 
> please enjoy it im so sorry

Moritz Stiefel hated his job.

There wasn’t exactly much to it— all he did was run the cash register at their local bread store and occasionally assist customers in finding the exact loaf they desired— yet he still hated showing up for the menial job anyway. It was merely part-time, only a little stint he did on the weekends so as to not distract from his school work on the weekdays, but it was just so incredibly boring to be stuck behind the same old mahogany counter and watch the neighborhood parents and grandparents drift in and out throughout the weekend for a loaf of sourdough or something of the sort.

Occasionally, some of his friends would stop by and linger, choosing to oblige him in a weird conversation about whatever crossed their mind. They’d never actually  _ buy _ any bread (save for Melchior, who would linger by the counter for ten minutes and happily chatter to the noirette about how stupid he found Hanschen’s haircut to be, drift off to grab a loaf of bread for his mother and then return, unfailing in his attempts to make Moritz laugh as he paid for his bread), but he was still thankful that they came in to see him and make the days a little less boring.

He hadn’t really even wanted the job, if he was being honest; Georg had suggested he worked part-time with him, and with the combination of not knowing how to say no, wanting to make a little bit of extra cash to spend money on silly little gifts for his boyfriend and deciding that a side job wouldn’t be all too bad if he had a friend to do the shifts with, he supposed it wouldn’t be too bad of a job. However, Georg hadn’t once told Moritz that he did his shifts on the  _ weekdays _ _,_ nor did he tell the boy that he was the one who helped manage the store for his mother— and he most certainly would’ve turned down the job if he had known all of that to begin with.

Today was no different. People lazily drifted in and out of the store at early hours of the day to be able to make their children a plate of french toast for breakfast, then again around lunchtime to be able to make sandwiches for the family as a lazy meal to hold them over until dinnertime. 

About half an hour before Moritz’ shift was due to come to a close, Melchior stumbled in, his eyes red with dark shadows beneath them. Curious, the noirette waved him over before beginning his usual customer greeting, “Hello, Melchi! Welcome to the bread bank— we sell bread, and we sell loafs. We have bread on the deck and bread on the floor— toasted, roasted—!”

“Shut the fuck up,” was what the brunette had barked back at him, words slurring together as they flopped pathetically from his mouth. A brow raised, Moritz discreetly pulled his phone from his pocket and began to record the boy (who had somehow managed to get himself drunk at an odd hour tonight and had been awake ever since then, as he would later find out). “Listen, Mo, I just need a uh… fuck, what’d she say? I think she said a baguette and a brioche?”

“We don’t have either of those here, our last few loaves of brioche just sold out and you know we only bake baguettes on Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. However, you could get the potato bread, which is a bit similar to a brioche, or our new gluten-free white bread?” He offered in substitution, a bemused smile playing at his lips as Melchior stared at him blankly. It was as if the boy were trying to somehow poof the bread he desired into existence through the sheer willpower of his mind, and the sight of his dazed face was enough to make Moritz want to laugh.

“What the fuck is gluten? Take that shit out, that sounds like a disease. Why do you sell diseased bread here..?” 

“It’s gluten-free, meaning—“

“I don’t  _ care _ if it’s free! Take that disease out of my damn bread!” Melchior hissed in response, slamming his hands down on the table, quickly regretting his decision and taking to simply folding them across his chest. His voice was low and speech nothing more than a jumbled mix of the phonetic gist of the words he was attempting to pronounce, and Moritz began to giggle at the pitifully wasted state of his best-friend-turned-boyfriend-but-no-homo-because-Steven-Sater-said-no-homo-when-scripting-the-vineyard-scene-so-therefore-there-can-be-no-homo-at-all-,-fuck-you-Steven.

“Melchi, I swear to God,” the noirette said after burying his face in his hands and laughing. Before him, the brunette hardly looked amused with the situation. His expression was stoic and serious and brows furrowed in irritation— for whatever reason, he really, really,  _ really  _ wanted them to just rip the gluten out of their bread. That was an impossible task, considering gluten begins to develop while the bread is being made, so Moritz really found himself at a loss as to what he should do.

“If you wanna fight, we can fight,” responded Melchior curtly, giving Moritz the meanest look he could muster in his intoxicated state. Unfortunately, it just made him look like he accidentally ingested an entire lemon and made the noirette burst out in another fit of laughter. “Nothing about this is funny, Moritz????? I told you I just want you to take the GLUTEN out of the BREAD but apparently that's too much work, and you wanna fucking fight put up a fight instead of just taking the damn gluten out of the bread?? I’ll record this entire thing too, bitch—“

“With what? A dollar store camera?”

“You know it, baby.” He pulled the camera out from his back pocket, and it was the smallest, cheapest, saddest, cheapest, cheapest, cheapest,  _ cheapest _ camera Moritz ever had the pleasure to lay his eyes upon. It made him laugh again and Melchior to scowl even harder. “I got my dollar store camera  **ON!!!!”**

“Moritz what the fuck is the situation I can literally hear you fro— oh my GOD.” Georg dropped a fuck ton of sheet music on the floor upon seeing Melchior there. Moritz was slightly puzzled as to why Georg was there considering it wasn't a weekday, but he didn't question it. He was just grateful to have another mind here to help sort out this weird, chaotic situation they found themselves caught in. 

"What the fuck do you want, Grossenbustenfucker? I thought you didn't work here on… what day is it?" The noirette had to bite back his laughter at the horrible nickname and the way the boy's face reddened upon hearing it. "Melchior  _ what the fuck?  _ I'm the motherfucking  _ manager _ here, so don't you worry your wasted ass on—"

"You? The manager?  **_At the bread store?????????"_ ** Melchior was quite clearly confused on such a concept, as if he had never known that the store was named after Georg's mother and had never seen the Zirschnitz family idle around the quaint little shop at odd hours of the day. A look of exasparation was painted on Georg's face as slammed his head down on the counter, whispering 'please tell me he's drunk'. Moritz gave him an affirmation.

"Ye—"

"Okay then, Mister Manager, I'm gonna need you to tell your stupid ass, cute ass fucking worker here to take the gluten out of my bread before I fucking sue you or something— I don't know what I'll do yet, but it'll be bad!" The brunette was  _ very _ adamant in his desire for this gluten-less gluten. His speech was becoming more and more slurred every time he opened his mouth, and Moritz was more than happy to be able to capture the entire ordeal (discreetly, of course) on his phone. Georg looked just about ready to fucking shoehorn himself off of this mortal plane and into the arms of Fraulein Grossenbustehalter, though.

"Melchior, you won't do shit to the store, and we most certainly cannot take the motherfucking goddamn gluten out of our bread." He slowly raised his head from the counter and massaged his temples as if he were an old man having to deal with a tantrum of a child. All he had wanted to do on this day was masturbate to the Fraulein's composition in his back office under the guise of completing a quick shift and then head off to his piano lessons with the aforementioned woman, not deal with a drunken Gabor who wants gluten.

"If you can't even take it out, why the fuck would you put that gluten into the bread in the first place? I know y'all must be smoking something…"

"Oh my God— Moritz, I can't take him anymore. I'll cover the rest of your shift, just  _ please _ get him out of my fucking store. If I wasn't weaker than a twig I would be shoving my entire grand piano up his ass right now, dude, so please get him away from me," hissed Georg beneath his breath, slipping Moritz a twenty, "And no, that's not a weird euphemism for my dick. His anal cavity is for your dick only. I literally just want to shove my fucking piano up his asshole."

The noirette's face was beginning to turn red from how hard he was straining himself to just not start cackling right then and there, and before he let Georg spew any more stupid shit he walked out from behind the counter, grabbed a loaf of potato bread from a nearby shelf and placed a hand on the small of Melchior's back. The brunette seemed to ease into his touch and a tired smile took over the unhappy look on his face as he was lead to the door, "My head is killing me— when did I even get into Georg's store? Oh, hey Georg."

Georg looked about ready to jump the counter and wrestle him to the ground, but Moritz escorted the boy out of the establishment before the flames could be fuelled any further, boyfriend in one hand and bread in the other. 

All was well… save for the fact that the bread had gluten. 

(But don't tell Melchior.)

**Author's Note:**

> the alternative title was "gluten, georg and gabor (and moritz)", but since i like having all of my works titled off of songs (save for storms + dear my immortal, moritz-- whICH I REALLY NEED TO UPDATE), i suppose that a fucking line from sicko mode wORKS TOO  
> i hope this got a laugh out of you,,, thanks for reading this mess !!
> 
> (friendly reminder to follow me on tumblr.... @springbutsummer plEase)


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